


Naso magister erat

by nerddowell



Series: Dead Romans Society [1]
Category: Dead Romans Society
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, What Have I Done, dead ancient romans are real party animals, my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cicero is throwing a party, and everybody is there. Of course, by the time anything interesting is happening, almost everyone is asleep - except for Catullus and Ovid, who otherwise entertain themselves...</p><p>Title from Ovid's <i>Ars Amatoria</i> III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naso magister erat

The atmosphere of the party, hot with food and the crush of bodies and the flickering torches and candles keeping the room lit in the semi-darkness outside, is almost as intoxicating as the wine making his head spin. His feet struggle to navigate the slick mosaic floor as he steps over spilled cushions, kicking a dropped wine cup away from the foot of a sofa. He manages to sink down beside his friend on a large, overstuffed chaise-longue, Ovid's plump, pretty feet sandal-less and pinkish toes wriggling where they are hanging off the end.

For a gathering thrown at Cicero's villa, the party has become rather wild. Petronius and Atticus are snorting unattractively into their wine over some witticism one or the other has made, and Cicero is laughing openly, his braying, husky voice setting Catullus' teeth on edge. Ovid gives him a knowing smile, trailing one hand over his thigh.

"Come on, old friend, let the old man have his fun."

"Which of us is oldest, then, if I'm _old friend_ and he's _old man_?" Catullus takes the cup from Ovid's lax grasp and gulps the wine. It is warm and sour, but wet on his throat, and that is all he needs in this moment. Ovid's eyes track the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows, and Catullus passes the cup back.

"Him, of course. No matter how long before me you lived, he is still your elder even now."

Catullus grins. "Good answer."

Ovid laughs, shifting to sit up and reaching for the wine jug sitting on the table in front of them. It is laden with fruits in bowls, cups of half-drunk wine and a pheasant that Ovid picks apart with quick, delicate movements, sucking grease off his fingertips and licking it off where it has smeared over his lips and chin. Catullus' eyes are drawn to the movements of his tongue, slow and drawn-out, and the party seems to be drowned out by the silence screaming in his head, world slowing to molasses.

Ovid is watching him with those dark, intelligent eyes, and he swallows quickly, filling his own cup and downing more wine. His friend smiles - "Take it easy, or I shall be carrying you up to bed this evening!" - before emptying his own cup down his throat.

Catullus leans back against him and closes his eyes. Ovid is the best of them to use as a human pillow - rather better-stuffed than Catullus himself, plump and comfortable and soft, with curls like silk and gentle, clever hands that always run through Catullus' own wild hair when he lays his head in Ovid's lap. This time is no different, and he sighs with contentment as he feels fingers begin to card through his locks.

"Vergilius is absent again," Ovid observes aloud, and Catullus _hmm_ s and nods. He often is; parties, loud gatherings and socialisation in general aren't Vergil's preferred sort of thing nowadays, and he's always kept himself to himself. All of them are worried about him, Horatius most of all; but there is nothing they can do, without that little man in the strange hat who speaks such unusual Latin. Catullus wonders idly what his hair is like under there - or if he even has any - before Ovid's hand tightens around a handful of his, prompting him to open his eyes and look up.

"What do you think is wrong?"

He takes a moment to think before answering. "I don't know," he says honestly, shaking his head, morose. "He's just... fading away. Perhaps he misses him?"

"I don't think that's it," Ovid says, frowning. "I don't think it would be anything that simple." He sighs heavily. "It's just irritating that we can do nothing about it."

Catullus agrees, closing his eyes again and settling his head back down in Ovid's lap. The stroking of his hair resumes quickly afterwards, and he gives a happy sigh, enjoying the sensation.

 

* * *

 

By the time he opens his eyes again, the party seems to be over; Ovid's hand is still in his hair, but no longer smoothing the errant strands down against the crown of his head. Cicero is snoring loudly on a long, regal purple couch beside Atticus, who seems to have fallen asleep halfway through drinking a cup of wine and has poured it all over his tunic. Petronius, Lucretius and Seneca are nowhere to be seen, though Horace is happily chuntering away to himself as he tidies away errant fruit pits and bowls from the floor.

Ovid is watching him. Him, not Horatius; his liquid eyes dark and lusty in the soft light. Catullus opens his mouth slightly to ask whether he wanted to walk home together, but Ovid silences him by pulling gently on his hair to sit him up, and fitting his mouth over Catullus'.

The kiss is heated and hungry, mouths tasting of wine and the berries Ovid has been intermittently popping into his mouth as he chatted and laughed his way through the party. Catullus, who has recovered slightly from the head-spinning earlier, finds the world suddenly in revolt again; he is dizzy, lungs airless, as Ovid takes his thin lower lip between pearly teeth and bit gently, smirking against Catullus' mouth. He laughs outright when Catullus moans, and his hand trails up under Catullus' toga to caress his thigh.

Breaking away, Catullus tries to steady himself, drunk on wine and the revelries of the evening, and now on the feeling of Ovid's lips against his own. Ovid himself is sat, strong and solid, against the arm of the chair, and he drags Catullus into his lap with a hand on the small of his back and his head ducking down to nestle between Catullus' shoulder and chin. Pressing wet kisses up and down his neck; his breathing hot and unsteady against Catullus' skin. Every inch of Catullus is tingling; the arousal and simple need to _fuck_ making him tremble. Ovid snorts softly against his shoulder, running a hand up his thigh, and continues to place slow, teasing kisses along the line of his shoulder, sucking at the juncture of neck and torso to make him shake harder and moan, low and desperate, in his throat.

Ovid pulls away and rests his forehead against Catullus', eyes pitch black and burning with desire as they rove over his face, settling on his lips, swollen and bruised from their kissing. Catullus swallows hard.

"I'm a bit drunk." He mumbles, trying to clear some of the cloud of lust and alcohol from his mind by rubbing his eyes. He almost punches Ovid in the face, bodily coordination absolutely shot, and Ovid laughs.

"You're _very_ drunk."

"Too drunk," he says sadly, "for this."

"No, not for this," Ovid replies, already pulling him in for another kiss.

"No," Catullus protests weakly, taking Ovid's hand and pressing it between his legs, "I mean I'm too drunk to-"

Ovid squeezes gently, but Catullus' cock stays resolutely limp, not giving so much as a twitch, despite how ridiculously aroused he is. The wine and his sluggish inebriation are conspiring against him, Catullus decides foggily, and Ovid laughs.

"Not to worry," he breathes against Catullus' mouth, laughing softly, "I'm not."

He moves their hands to his own crotch, and Catullus lets out a huff of air as Ovid's cock twitches against his palm, hard beneath his toga. He moans, straddling him properly, and runs his fingertips over the outline, rubbing harder over the head and making Ovid suck in a sharp breath and arch his hips invitingly.

He pushes Ovid's toga up, half-falling off the couch to kneel between Ovid's legs, pushing his thighs wide to stare at his cock, hard and leaking fluid from the tip. Curling his hand loosely around Ovid's prick, he slowly moves his hand up and down, dragging the foreskin away from the rapidly darkening head, and gazing at Ovid's face in wonder as he begins to thrust, panting, into Catullus' hand. His own fists are gripping the folds of his toga, undone and falling open over the couch to display his plump body to Catullus' hungry eyes.

Their gazes locked, Catullus bends down in slow motion, ghosting his lips over the head of Ovid's cock, smearing them with glistening wetness he licks off with a flick of his tongue. Ovid groans and arches his hips greedily, trying to push into Catullus' mouth; warm, wet and waiting for him. Catullus grins, but takes mercy on him, opening his mouth and slowly taking Ovid in, running his tongue over the frenulum and tightening his grip around the shaft. Above him, Ovid moans loudly and bucks his hips again.

Catullus swats at him, letting him know he didn't appreciated his greediness, and continues to suck him off leisurely, bobbing his head and teasing his balls with his free hand.

Ovid is writhing against the sofa, sheened with sweat and hair sticking to his face, when he pushes Catullus away by the shoulders and shakes his head.

"No. Don't - finish me," he pants, dragging Catullus back up onto the seat beside him, "I w-want to - fuck you."

Catullus gasps shallowly, images swimming in his head of Ovid in the throes of passion, hazy thoughts of Ovid's prick in his hand or mouth. _But that wouldn't be where it'd be going_ , his mind whispers traitorously, and he feels a cold sluice of fear run down his spine.

"But - we can't," he protests, words slurring together with the wine sloshing through his system and his anxiety. "We're _men_."

"Men do these things, or so I've heard," Ovid purrs, tilting Catullus down to lie against the cushions of the seat, "and who knows, you might enjoy it."

"I'm not a woman, that you can - can shove your prick inside me and -"

"I'm not calling you a woman," Ovid snaps, his hands stroking Catullus' thighs and easing them apart slowly. "Just... trust me."

Catullus stares at him for a long moment, eyes wide and still trembling with a mixture of arousal and fear, before nodding. He does trust Ovid, gods help him, and in this moment he'd do anything to make him happy (and hopefully feel a smidgen of relief for this burning need inside him that his cock, numbed by wine, is somehow managing to sleep through).

Ovid grins at him, climbing off the couch to disappear from view in search of oils or similar to lubricate the way. Catullus lays, in a wine-soaked daze, on the couch, glowering at his stubbornly flaccid penis and cursing it silently. Cicero gives a particularly loud snore and he throws Ovid's discarded toga over himself in fear that Cicero or one of the others will awaken and throw him out for being in such a state of debauchment at what is supposed to have been a civilised gathering.

Ovid returns a few minutes later carrying a bottle of scented oil. Catullus, a twinge of anxiety making his stomach briefly clench, slowly spread his legs wider, and Ovid settles between them, gaze predatory, biting his lip and making it flush dark before uncapping the bottle and clumsily coating his fingers.

He prods gingerly at Catullus' opening, pressing against his hole and trying to wriggle a finger inside.  
"You have to relax!"

"I haven't done this before!" Catullus snaps back, needled and now feeling the effects of his nerves again. "And you're not exactly a master at it yourself, either!"

Ovid growls, pressing harder and finally shoving his finger past the clenching muscle and deep into Catullus' body. It burns, and he yelps, trying to wriggle away, but Ovid holds him down with a hand on his hip as he awkwardly tries to stretch the tight passage. After a few minutes and another finger, Ovid gives up and withdraws as sharply as he'd entered, making Catullus whine and clench in discomfort.

"Do you still want to do this?" Ovid asks, cock in hand as he rubs it gently over Catullus' entrance. Catullus gulps, nodding hesitantly, and cries out as Ovid presses in, a slow, inexorable burn as he sinks into Catullus' body until his hips are pressed snugly against Catullus' bony arse. He gives him a moment to get used to the sensation and recover before beginning to move, and it is then that the pain of entry starts to be soothed away by pleasure.

It isn't necessarily _great_ , or even _good_ \- just, _less uncomfortable_ \- until Ovid shifts slightly and thrusts, and the head of his cock drags over something inside Catullus that makes him yell and see white lights bursting across his vision. Ovid freezes in a panic until he complains, "W-why have you s-stopped? Carry on, for gods' sakes -" and soon they are bucking against each other, Catullus tossing his head back and shouting on every in thrust and Ovid sucking in breaths harshly on every withdrawal.

 

* * *

 

It is over, really, before it even starts - Ovid doesn't last long because of the alcohol (and Catullus secretly suspects that his bragging about his stamina is at least half a lie anyway), and Catullus is still only half-hard, although sated, when Ovid is finished. They use a napkin, laying crumpled on the table, to dab away the oil and semen smeared over Catullus' thighs (Ovid panicking a little when traces of red show up against the pale linen), and get redressed - or at least, covered well enough up - before joining the others in falling asleep on the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> This was unbeta'ed because I was too ashamed of being such a classics nerd to write porn of two dead Roman poets getting it on, to show anyone and ask them to look it over for me.
> 
> Worse still is the knowledge that there will be more of this series to come.
> 
>  **ETA:** FML so many edits needing to be made (and it's four hours after posting, 2am, that I finally realise that there's a tense change in the middle of the story (now sorted out!))


End file.
